They returned to the subject many times. Randolph spent but a part of the day on the moors. He was an admirable shot, and took care to distinguish himself, but was at no pains to conceal his lack of enthusiasm. On the fourth day of his visit, as Lee was showing him over the Abbey, she said abruptly:
“Did you ever get a letter I wrote to you the day after I arrived here?”
“The day after——”
“It was all about the Abbey. I told you that Emmy might leave nothing, and that everybody had expected Cecil to marry a fortune, or else lose his inheritance. They wanted him to marry that Miss Pix, and they all seemed to think I was a criminal for not being worth a million. I felt a fool, I can assure you, for not investing in the Peruvian mine.”
“And you wrote to your old slave to make a million for you. I did not get the letter, but I can see every word of it.”
“I don’t think I should have the same assurance to-day, but I’d be very thankful if you’d advise me.”
“Oh, you have changed! It’s really tragic!”
They were in the crypt of the Abbey, an immense rambling and shadowy vault. Lee put her hands to her face suddenly and began to cry. Randolph took her in his arms and patted her gently.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to make love to you. I’m only your big brother. But you must come back with me to California.”
“Oh, I want to go—the more I think of it, the more I want to go. The first time I have a chance I’ll speak to Cecil about it; but he comes home just in time to dress and is so tired he’s asleep before he’s fairly in bed and in the morning he’s gone before I’m awake.”